


Won't Be Long

by alphagottadonk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sheriff Stilinski is Awesome, caretaker Stilinskis, hurt/comfort if you squint really hard maybe, sick!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:48:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphagottadonk/pseuds/alphagottadonk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek manages to get sick while his body's weak post-nogitsune fight, and Stiles sees the opportunity to do a good deed to make up for the bad he did while possessed. Thus, he (and sometimes the Sheriff) decide to take Derek in and care for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Be Long

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another tumblr prompt. sick!Stiles is great and all, but I think we need more sick!Derek no?

After the whole ordeal with the nogitsune was dealt with, everyone expected things from Stiles. They expected him to need pieced back together, to need time to heal and come to terms with what happened, to need someone to take care of him and promise him nothing was his fault.

In reality, all Stiles felt like he needed was a way to atone for everything because he couldn’t stop it. The thing had been in _his_ body, _his_ mind and he couldn’t even fight against it, so of course he felt somewhat accountable. He wasn’t going to lie around steeping in self-deprecation though; he just wanted a way to at least start to do some good in retaliation to make up for all of the bad his hands caused.

So when he found a chance to do that, he pounced on it. That chance came in the form of Derek and well, he didn’t pounce Derek no matter how completely unopposed to that he would be, but he threw himself at the chance to help him. 

He had been severely weakened by the nogitsune somehow, probably akin to how an alpha’s wounds to other werewolves didn’t heal right, so he was already walking around susceptible to injury, okay? It wasn’t that surprising, except the type of injury was.

Stiles was sitting at his desk playing Sims on his laptop to occupy himself while he was alone, having found that it was a lot easier to just keep himself busy so his mind couldn’t wander. He was currently in the process of typing in a cheat to make all of his sims’ needs stay maxed out when he heard a familiar thump on the dormer outside his window, waiting for the inevitable sound of the window sliding open since no one bothered knocking anymore, even after a few embarrassing incidents. He didn’t bother keeping it locked either, because really? If something with supernatural strength wanted into his room via the window, he had no doubts that some flimsy locks wouldn’t keep them out.

He turned around when the window didn’t open, a small bud of panic furling in his chest at the thought that maybe it wasn’t real and he was about to start hallucinating again, except then he saw the top of Derek’s head just barely standing out against the dark sky and let go a sigh of relief.

“Too good to open the window yourself now?”

He questioned as he pushed away from his chair and made the couple of steps to the window, pushing it open and waiting for Derek to hop in like usual. His entrance wasn’t as show-offy as was so common of him though. Rather, he half tumbled through the window and onto the floor in a freakish mass of muscle and bad attitude that nearly took Stiles down with him. 

“Whoa, dude, what are you doing?”

He questioned when he barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the desk, staying upright so that he could give Derek his best judgmental stare. When Derek pushed himself to sit up, slumping back against the dresser though, Stiles could tell he definitely wasn’t alright.

It wasn’t like it was that cold out anymore, just barely enough to leave a few rosy cheeked people if they were out in it for long enough, but Derek’s face looked absolutely wind bitten. His cheeks were stained a deep, ruddy color that looked like it probably actually radiated heat, and the area around his eyes looked practically bruised as opposed to the overall pale tone to him otherwise.

It almost reminded him of the time with the wolfsbane bullet, save for the flushing because then Derek just looked paper white. 

“Are you okay?”

He asked when Derek just stared at the wall, seemingly trying to catch his breath. “Right, not okay then.” He mumbled to himself before plopping down in his desk chair and scooting it over enough to lean in to get a closer look at Derek, who made to glare at Stiles for it but just ended up with a dazed, half-lidded look that felt completely out of place there.

He pressed his palm against Derek’s sweat slicked forehead when he didn’t get an answer and as expected, he was hot to the touch. Stiles didn’t see any signs of physical damage on him; no blood, no torn clothing, no nothing, and it was even more unsettling.

“Okay, you gotta work with me here, Derek. I’m not a mind reader.” He berated because all he was doing was watching Stiles like he was trying to keep his eyes open and even it was a daunting task.

“It’s nothing.” Derek finally said, voice more scraggly than Stiles had probably ever heard it. “I just have a cold or something.”

Stiles started to snort in amusement at the thought of a werewolf coming down with a cold after being told so many times that they couldn’t get sick like humans, but the murderous look Derek fixed him with had him shutting up.  
“A cold is more of an inconvenience than this though. I mean, they suck yeah, but you look like satan ran over you a few times with a moped or something.”

And of course the only part Derek seemed to catch from that was the odd comparison, head tipping back against the dresser as he pulled his brows together at Stiles in that ‘I have no clue what you mean and I don’t care to’ sort of way. He frowned at him for a few moments before turning around and hurrying to close out his game, pulling up his browser as soon as he could. 

“Okay, symptoms?”

He asked, fingers poised over the keys in wait, but it wasn’t particularly surprising when Derek grunted, “It’s nothing, seriously.” And obviously Stiles wasn’t placated by the answer, so he tossed Derek a glance over his shoulder, demanding, “Symptoms, Derek.”

He most definitely thought against answering, but gave up when Stiles wheeled around to look at him expectantly. This was a game he wasn’t going to lose and they both knew it.  
Fever was a given, but when he managed to coax out that Derek also felt like a weight was pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe, shortness of breath and coughing, Stiles at least had enough to work with for some research.

“Slight or severe fatigue,” Stiles read off as he skimmed an article, deciding, “Obviously severe considering the way you practically starfished the floor.” From then, it looked like it could be several things, but some type of respiratory infection was the obvious culprit. And with that, a chance for Stiles to feel like he was doing something to balance the bad.

“Alright, up,” He said, going over to Derek and helping him get to shaky legs, listening to the piteous way his breathing crackled at the end of each short exhale. He looked clammy so Stiles pushed at his jacket until he got it off his shoulders and nudged him toward the bed, saying, “I’m going to go make you some tea. Nothing is better for this junk than a nice, hot cup of tea.”

Derek tried protesting, but the moment he hit the mattress, the words died out into a breathless groan. Right, tea. He promised tea.

He headed downstairs and started steeping a mug, digging around their cabinets until he found honey. They didn’t currently have any lemons, so store bought lemon juice would have to suffice. He fixed the tea up with enough honey to sweeten it and enough lemon juice to soothe a sore throat before taking it up to the room, being careful not to spill any on the way up the stairs.

“Okay, I worked really-“  
He was saying as he made it back into the room but stopped short when he noticed Derek was completely, 100% out cold, snuffling pathetically. Stiles sat the mug down on the nightstand and paused to listen, the way Derek’s breaths were coming out in such rapid succession worrisome enough that he texted Scott asking if there was any way they could get Deaton there pronto.

\---

Deaton did come out to see what was wrong, even though he hadn’t been at the clinic for hours. He listened to Derek’s breathing with a stethoscope and asked a few questions any doctor would ask people before sliding the stethoscope around his neck.

“I would definitely say it’s a type of infection. Maybe along the lines around Bronchitis or Pneumonia.” He answered, digging around in the little bag he’d brought with him. “It’s harder to tell with werewolves since their heart rates and temperatures tend to run higher, but the wheezing is bad.”

Derek just kept half-heartedly glaring at Stiles who was standing over them monitoring everything, asking, “Okay, and what do you suggest we do about it, Doc?”

Deaton placed an unlabeled bottle on the nightstand before instructing. “Rest. Let your body heal itself even if that happens slowly. And take those.” He pointed to the bottle of pills that Stiles picked up, shaking them before trying to stare at them like it would answer what they were, but Deaton didn’t seem to think they needed that information.

\---

“I’m not staying here.” Derek argued, voice only coming across a fraction as stern as he was probably aiming for but that was probably because he started coughing around midway between the last word, light mewling coughs like doing anything harder hurt too much.

Stiles just grinned like Derek had any say so in the matter. As far as he was concerned, Deaton said Derek needed rest, and rest meant not up doing things for yourself. As sad as it was, Stiles highly doubted anyone else would be willing to devote any of their time to taking care of him while he was this sick, and that was a saddening thought. So he resolved to do it himself.

“You’re definitely staying here, sicko.” He said, patting Derek’s leg and ignoring the look he got that could wilt flowers. Whatever, Derek’s attempts at scaring Stiles worked in a completely different way anymore so he wasn’t too bothered. Instead, he turned to give him a challenging look in response.

“You don’t have much of a choice anyways. I already texted Dad and told him to pick up some stuff on his way home. He’s all for harboring your ass while you’re sick so deal, Big Guy.”

That seemed to throw him off long enough for Stiles to move the conversation past where Derek was going to sleep, pushing back to his feet and wandering down the hall to where the linen closet was to find a fresh change of sheets for the guest bed.

 

As soon as he had them wrangled onto the bed in the room down the hall, he went back for Derek who of course tried putting up a fight over it. Stiles walked him to the bed ignoring his assurances that he didn’t need someone looking after him, that he was fine. He was obviously not fine. He burrowed into the bed even as he tried saying he wasn’t that sick, letting out a long sigh once he was settled.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles commented, making sure there was a box of tissues nearby and a wastebasket, going to retrieve the tea Derek left behind and putting it by the tissues.

“Okay, I think that’s everything. I’m leaving the door open so if you need anything, just yell or something and I’ll hear, yeah?”

Derek just stared at him, eyes fluttering and Stiles smirked, flipping the light off and demanding, “Sleep.” Before heading back to the room.

\---

“So, sick.”  
The Sheriff repeated as he sat the bags down on the table, eying Stiles warily about the whole ordeal. Stiles nodded and hurried to give a quick run-down about it apparently being possible since Derek was currently already weak as he dug through the bag, looking at what all his dad bought.

He didn’t have a clue if normal people medicine would help, but they might as well try, he figured. 

“And you’re keeping an eye out for him. For reasons.”  
His dad continued, trying to piece together if there was some ulterior motive going on or if it was actually a good idea to let a sick werewolf shack up with them for the time being. Stiles rolled his eyes at that.

“Dude’s pretty fried right now. I’m not entirely sure he could survive by himself without managing to maim himself. Now,” He turned to his dad with the medicine cap filled with bitter smelling cough medicine, holding it out to him.  
“Take this up to him and do whatever you need to force this in him.”

He was optimistic that his dad could get Derek to take it better than he could, so why not use it to his advantage? 

His dad took it from him with an exasperated, “Ah, crap.” Before disappearing upstairs, setting the rest of the things on the table and plopping down to look them over. Medicine for the humidifier, normal medicine, cough drops, lemons, VapoRub, and tissues. Yeah, they were stocked up on whatever they could possibly need to help a sick werewolf, he was fairly sure.

His dad came back downstairs and Stiles didn’t miss the hint of smugness he had pulling at his face when he brandished the empty medicine cap, Stiles narrowing his eyes at him. Show-off. He cleaned it and headed up with the cough drops and vaporub, taking them to Derek’s room and flicking the bedside lamp on.

Derek looked like he was pouting over the medicine and Stiles grinned at how unsurprising that was, tearing the cough drops open and offering one that Derek reclined. “Here, then. They’re right here by the tissues, and this?” He held the small tub of vaporub up for him to see, explaining, “You rub some on your chest and it helps open the airways. Stuff’s a heaven send.”

Derek didn’t respond past nodding minutely, looking like he was wishing death on himself just to get some relief. Stiles hesitated for a few moments before pushing at Derek’s legs to sit down on the edge of the bed, reaching toward him but pausing uncertainly before deciding to just go ahead with it.

He brushed the hair sticking to Derek’s forehead away and checked how fevered he still was, hoping the medicine he took could actually do something to tame it even a little bit. Derek shuddered in response, a full-body muscle jerking tremor that looked like it was almost enough to send his teeth clattering. 

“If the fever gets too high, don’t think I won’t throw you in cold water.” He warned, pressing the back of his hand to Derek’s cheek too before pulling back and watching him. It was ridiculous how it actually pained him to see the guy so sick but he couldn’t help laughing when Derek settled back into the bed grumbling, “Sending your dad up with medicine. That’s a dirty, dirty trick.”

Stiles was nothing if not resourceful.

\---

He honestly didn’t expect Derek to still be there when he woke up the next morning. He would be bummed, but he had gone to bed accepting he would probably gather his strength and flee. After showering and brushing his teeth, though, he walked by the guest room and pushed the ajar door open, watching the way the early morning light filtered into the room in a dim dusting. Derek was still curled up in bed, twitching in almost painful looking shivers even though he was buried under blankets.

He tried staying as quiet as possible as he made his way into the room to gather up the empty mug, heading downstairs to make more. He had it steeping while he made breakfast. He was halfway through scrambling eggs when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, listening to the way Derek shuffled like it was an arduous task just walking before he peeked into the kitchen at Stiles. Stiles smiled broadly at the sight of him, hair a mess and bleary eyed, motioning for him to sit down at the table.

“Mornin’ sleepyhead.”

He greeted, finishing the eggs and going back over to finish the tea, juicing a lemon to pour into it along with the honey before taking it over to Derek who actually listened and settled at the table. He got little more than a groan in response, Derek’s hands curling around the mug as soon as it was placed in front of him. 

He walked back to the stove, digging bowls out of the cabinets as he said, “I made oatmeal and eggs. If you want toast, speak now or you know, do without.”

He filled the bowls with the oatmeal, dumping eggs directly into his and putting Derek’s in a plate in case he was one of those people that didn’t like mixing food. He took them both to the table, sliding Derek’s over to him before going to the fridge and pouring himself a glass of milk, brow quirking when he sat down and Derek hadn’t moved.

“Eat up so you can grow into a big, strong boy, Derek.” He jeered, digging into his food and pretending he didn’t know exactly what the look Derek shot him meant, before he groaned and took a slow drink of the tea.

“I don’t have an appetite.” 

Stiles frowned, wagering, “At least eat half. Appetite or not, you need to eat a little bit. Then, if you do, we can hull up on the couch.”  
Derek looked at him like he didn’t see how that was even remotely close to a reason to force himself to eat, but Stiles was still counting it as a win considering Derek obliged, picking up his spoon and taking a bite.

He sat the humidifier up on the living room coffee table, bringing everything Derek may need downstairs and in reach before flopping down on the couch beside him where he was currently bundled up in the blanket off Stiles’ bed.  
“You could have gotten the blanket off your bed. Why do you have to use mine to get your sick breath all over?”

He questioned as he flicked the television on, smiling at the sad excuse of a glare he got in return. “Calm down, Grumps, I’m just teasing. Nothing a run through the wash can’t fix.” He said, taking the risk and ruffling Derek’s messy hair. 

He was pleasantly surprised by the lack of response he got, thinking he might end up keeping all of his fingers after all. Of course, Derek was apparently too wiped out to care when he dropped his head on Stiles’ lap, asleep within the next ten minutes. 

He didn’t mind, oddly enough. Derek had a portion of the blanket bundled up under his cheek as a makeshift pillow, warm enough that Stiles’ legs felt like he’d been lying close to a space heater, but what did bother him was Derek’s breathing. Each exhale dragged out in a wet gurgle that honestly worried Stiles, getting lost thinking about how mad he would be if a respiratory infection ended up being Derek’s demise after everything.

He woke just over forty-five minutes later on a coughing fit that left him grimacing in pain, face flushing even darker red if even possible and it was when he looked up at Stiles through half-lidded eyes that it hit him. It was like someone hit him square in the chest with a sledge hammer, a sudden, consuming wave of protectiveness that he had only known in regards to three other people—his father, Scott, and Lydia. Derek apparently fell into that category.  
“You’re practically baking.” He sighed, not needing to check Derek’s fever to know it. He pushed himself off the couch and went for the medicines again, finding the pills Deaton left and the medicine that doubled as a cough syrup and fever reducer.

Derek scowled at them like a child but took whatever Stiles gave him, grimacing as he swallowed it all down and reached for the tea to chase it with. He wriggled back into his spot after, feeling better now that Derek was medicated. He really had to be feeling lousy if the way he instantly latched back onto Stiles was anything to go by. Derek wasn’t ever the tactile type, but Stiles didn’t dare comment on it. He was practically wrapped around his dad or Scott like a baby monkey whenever he was sick, so he didn’t have room to judge anyways.

Instead he shifted so that he could lean back against the arm of the couch, pleased when Derek draped himself over him and settled his head high on Stiles’ chest. He slipped back asleep faster than should even be possible and somewhere in the next half hour, Stiles did the same.

 

The whole day ended up being a lazy, sleep-marathon type day. Derek didn’t want to let Stiles move unless absolutely necessary, leeching as much contact as possible and Stiles was absolutely fucked because there was no way he could say no to that pitiful, red-cheeked look Derek kept giving him whenever he had to get up. He was limited to bathroom breaks, lunch break, and breaks to get more medicine or make more tea. Aside from that, he was stuck under Derek’s furnace of a body.

He was drifting just between sleep and awake when his dad arrived home, stopping in the doorway with a perplexed look on his face. “Hey, Daddy-O,” Stiles hummed, nodding his head at him.

“Should I even ask?”

The sheriff responded as he shucked his jacket and belt off, eyes following the movement of Stiles’ hand where it was carding through Derek’s sweat damp hair. Right. It was probably an odd sight to happen upon your son being used as a sick werewolf’s pillow, but to be fair at this point, his dad had seen much stranger.

“Cuddling is proven to help sick people, probably,”

He responded flippantly, yawning and biting back a grin when Derek let out a low, grumbling sound at being jostled. His dad shook his head in that ‘not going to ask, then’ kind of way before heading upstairs for a shower, Derek only lifting his head when the sound of the shower starting upstairs reached them. 

“He’s not mad is he?” He asked, voice thick from sleep and somewhat slurred from the medicine. 

“Nah, he totally likes you. Otherwise you would be tossed out the door already.” He assured, scraping lightly at Derek’s scalp and chuckling at the way he leaned into it with a sigh before Derek settled, nuzzling back down with a quiet sound that could possibly have been a small, “Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi at my [tumblr](http://www.larkspurleaf.tumblr.com)


End file.
